Welcome to Morisville

 The sign stood tall and bland against the midday sky, ancient wood bleached gray by the sun. The ink was hardly legible, but it read, ‘WELCOME TO MORISVILLE’. We stood around it in a half-circle, hands stuffed in our pockets or folded over our chests or behind our backs or resting on our hips, all of us staring. It’d been a long walk from Milkirk. We were tired. Hungry. Damien dropped his packs on the ground and sat on top of them. His face was red and his shoulders were slumped. He wasn’t staring at the sign anymore. Just down at his scuffed up, road-worn boots.

“They’s dead too,” He huffed.

“Whatssat?” Carl barked. His voice was all snippy and quick, scuffed from thirst and smoke. Carl liked his cigars. Liked them too much. His teeth were yellow and parts of his gums had blackened. His eyes and nails were jaundiced. Besides the cigars, that old rat put down half a pack of Lost Spirits a day, easily. “Whatssat, ‘they dead’? Hell you on about, ‘they dead’?”

Damien looked up at him, wary. The codger had snapped and bludgeoned Clark to death eighty miles ago. I reckon we were all trying hard not to think about that any more than we had to.

“We won’t know anything until we head in,” I said, looking at each of the seven in turn. I let my gaze linger on Carl and Damien the longest. It was enough to make Carl balk—for the nonce. “Let’s take ten. Catch our breath. Then we’ll start scouting. Does that sound alright to all of you?”

A chorus of groans resounded. Carl, the hint of a snarl evident in the twinge of his upper lip, said nothing. He turned his dead eyes to the hills, a red flush creeping up his neck. I’d need to deal with that later. 

It was as bothersome to rest as it was to keep moving. Resting meant getting up again, and that felt nigh on impossible until you were doing it. Half of us slipped off to sleep while sitting upright on our packs. The other half tried to. Only Carl and I stayed awake. I sat with my back to one of the columns that propped up the Morisville sign, my feet kicked up onto my pack, my hat slumped down to shade my eyes from the glaring sun. Carl stood right where I’d left him, statuesque, a slight hunch to his shoulders. Every so often he’d give me the side eye, and I made sure he saw me staring back. When he did, he’d hold it before balking again.

The pinky hanging from my day bag had been a firm enough lesson for him. I only worried that the psychological dam it had built would give under pressure; I wasn’t sure what I’d do if and when that happened. The thing was, I needed him. He was the only guy in the bunch with any mechanical know how. We’d had a truck for a few weeks thanks to him. That had been good. We’d managed to build up a strong base of operations. We’d been able to ferry bulk supplies that allowed for construction. Hell, we’d gotten close to having a pair of motorcycles road-ready.

That was in Milkirk. Before Clark.

My internal clock went off a few minutes later. I stood, gathered my things, and the others did likewise.

“Carl,” I called. The codger turned and stared at me, his face as emotionally vacant as he was able to get it. I’d have liked to have given him the benefit of doubt. Thing was, I couldn’t. “You’re with me. On point.”

*

The town was desolate, just as Damien had predicted. What windows weren’t busted in or out were boarded up; there didn’t seem to be an in between. Somewhere in Downtown Milkirk, a cat meowed loudly, its voice reverberating off of the walls of the alleys we stalked past. Distant dogs barked in the wending neighborhoods that fanned out around downtown. Other than these and the occasional whistling of a lazy breeze, our own breathing was about all we could hear.

“Dead,” Damien said. “All ‘em dead.”

Carl bristled. My haunches rose in response.

“Ain’t dead. Just hushed like,” Carl grumbled. “Be waitin’ for us someplace in here.”

I doubted it, but chose to keep my mouth shut. Carl needed this. I needed him. So there was no point robbing him of his hope. Hope was about the only positive thing Carl had left in him, as far as I could tell.

Still. I needed him to brace for the possibility.

“Could be they moved on,” I offered a short while later. “Next town’s, what, twenty miles? That’s not—“

Clang. Clang. Clang-clang-clang.

Each of us had our weapons drawn in the same instant. I clutched my axe in a white knuckle grip; Carl had produced his bat and held it in one hand while the other fished for his knife; Damien, god bless him, had the balls to drag a shotgun on our long walk, and held it at the ready. The rest had their assorted weapons; a combat knife, a machete, a ball-peen hammer. We had less than I’d have liked, but enough to fend off most threats.

A flurry of questions rustled through the group.

“Think it’s…? No way it’s them, right? What the damn hell?”

“Hush,” I said sharply, and silence fell over us. We stood stark still, listening.

Clang-clang-clang-clang-clang.

The sound of something striking a mesh-wire fence, over and over and over and over. Multiple somethings. My mouth ran dry. I shared a glance with Carl. Damien let off a high-pitched keening sort of moan, a sound I’d never known a man his size to make while sober.

Collectively, we traced a path through the tangle of alleyways and cobblestone roads to the source of the noise. We stood in a line atop a slab of parking lot that jutted out over a hill. Down at the foot was a fence that cordoned off a river from public access, and opposite that fence, a gaggle of Flesh convulsed.

“Fuck,” Damien hissed.

“Fuck,” Carl agreed. He took two steps toward the ledge, staring hard at the congealed mass.

“Might’ve been a family,” Kyle said.

“Two families,” Jane countered.

“Mel,” Carl choked out. “Mel-Mel-Mel-Mel no-no-no—“

He darted off; I caught the scruff of his shirt and held him back. He strained, turned and lashed out at me. I swatted his bat aside with the flat of my axe’s blade, stepped into him, and swept his ankles out from under him. He went down easily. The codger was too shocked to react at first. He just gaped up at me, tears welling in his eyes.

The Flesh kept at it.

Clang-clang-clang-clang-clang.

“Mel, she’s… She ain’t… That isn’t…”

A purple blanket was lodged in one of the necks that jutted from the Flesh, whipping in the wind. A malformed hand rose from the thing’s third shoulder, clutched the tag near the base of the scarf and rubbed it against one of several chins. An old habit. An old comfort item.

Carl’s granddaughter was a part of that mass, alright.

“Damien. Gonna need that gun.”

He approached, and I swapped my axe for his shotgun. I checked to make sure it was loaded, then extended a hand down to Carl. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it, and I hauled him to his feet.

“Can’t have you rushing off to die alone,” I told him. “Let’s do this right.”

His eyes lingered on the gun. His grip on the bat tightened. His upper lip twinged, hinting again at an impending snarl. Carl turned it into a smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Alright, partner,” he said softly. “Let’s do it right.”

He turned, and we walked together toward the Flesh.

It took three shots. Just three.

As the Flesh melted into a puddle, it released its grip on the blanket. I knelt and extracted it, ripped it free of the bony hand that still clutched the tag. I held it up to the wind so that Carl could examine it. His face turned grim, grief flooding out his anger, shattering his spite-fueled resolve. He collapsed then.

We waited as long as we could, but as dusk drew near and the old man lingered on the edge of catatonia, we were forced to try to move him. Of course, he went for the gun. Of course he did.

It took one shot.