The Takers: Book One of the Oz Chronicles Page 3

  I could not drive. I didn't know the first thing about the mechanics of making a car go and more importantly stop. I knew cars had a gas pedal and a brake pedal, but when I tried to imagine how much pressure was the proper amount to apply to either, I convinced myself that not knowing the exact answer to that question would result in a horrible wreck that would leave me either dead or badly injured. So, taking my parents' car was not an option, and since carrying a lot of equipment and Nate on my bike was impossible, I was left with my only mode of transportation being my feet.

  I loaded my mom's garden wagon full of supplies; food, clothes, diapers, tools, kitchen knives, flashlights, matches, anything I could think of that would be useful. At one point, the wagon was so full I could hardly pull it. I unloaded it and eliminated whatever I could to make the load lighter. It was a process I repeated several times, until I got it down to a weight I was comfortable with.

  With Nate in his sling and dangling from my shoulder, I made one last pass through my house. I stared at the family photos as long as I could, burning them into my memory. They were pictures of happy times, and I wanted those memories to be the ones I carried with me on my journey. I took the photo of my Mom and Pop's last anniversary, all three of us at Baskin Robbins eating our weight in ice cream, and stuffed it in my pocket. That's when I realized that I had not taken a picture of Nate's parents with me. It would be our first stop before we headed out of town.

  Just in case, I left a note for my parents on the refrigerator. "Gone looking for you. Love, Oz." I think it was the first time I ever signed a note to my Mom and Pop with the word "love." It saddened me that they would probably never see it.

  I took a picture from Nate's father's office. It was a picture of Mr. Chalmers, Mrs. Chalmers, and Nate at the hospital. Mr. Chalmers had the biggest smile I think I had ever seen. They all looked tired and on the verge of collapse, but I felt like it was their happiest moment. Nate should know that he made them happy.

  As I was about to leave Mr. Chalmers's office, I noticed that he had a sword hanging on his wall. According to its plaque, it belonged to a Union Officer in the Civil War by the name of James J. Petty. I pulled it off the wall and was surprised at how heavy it was. It looked as if it were brand new. I dubbed the sword J.J. and brought it with me.

  I positioned myself in the middle of the road. The temperature hovered somewhere in the high 50s. I put on my Tennessee Titans sweatshirt and made sure that Nate was bundled up tight in his blanket. I figured my body temperature would keep him warm. I gave my house one last look over my shoulder and then started pulling my wagon down Harper Street.

  We crossed over to Collinwood and then Freemont Avenue where I made my next stop. I stood in front of Stevie Dayton's house, and felt a chill race through my bones. I avoided this house like the plague whenever I went bike riding for fear Stevie would see me and come running out after me, begging me to come in and read his latest story. It was the only time I was polite to him because his mom was always within earshot, and I didn't want her to know how I really treated her son.

  I walked inside and like all the other houses it was empty. It was left intact like my house, but it was just as disturbing as all the other houses that had been ransacked. The faint odor of terror was in the air. I quickly made my way to Stevie's room and found his collection of stories in a series of boxes underneath his bed. Amazingly, they were all neatly filed away. I overturned the first box and rifled through the mound of monster and mutant stories. Stevie had written hundreds of comic books. I dumped the next box, and then the next. It wasn't there. All the boxes empty, I stood and backed out of his room.

  At the end of the hall, I saw the door to the basement. "That's where they found him," I told myself. "He had it with him." I said it with a knowing that made no sense to me. How I thought I knew that he had the comic book I was looking for with him the day he killed himself, I don't know, but I was sure of it. I took a step toward the door and stopped. It was foolish to go down there without protection. I ran back to the wagon and got J.J. and a flashlight.

  A rush of cold air struck me when I opened the door to the basement. Nate must have felt it too because he squirmed in his sling. I took one step down and looked at Kimball. He backed away from the door. "Kimball, c'mon," I said, but he backed away even farther. He would not make the trip downstairs with me.

  Each stair creaked and sagged as I stepped on it. The beam from my flashlight created a bent tunnel of light surrounded by total darkness. I felt as if I were entering hell.

  My feet touched the cement floor. I scanned my flashlight back and forth. It was an unfinished basement that served as the Dayton's laundry room. A basket of laundry sat on top of the dryer. I turned to my right. A series of pipes snaked across the ceiling to the far corner of the room. To the left, there were six metal shelves that contained tools and spare parts for various household items.

  Back to the right, I followed the pipes to the corner of the room. J.J. shook in my trembling hand as I approached the area where I was certain Stevie had taken his own life. A musky smell grew stronger and stronger as I got closer. A group of fast moving spiders scurried in front of the beam from my flashlight. I followed their frantic journey and stopped when my light illuminated an overturned chair. "It was the one he was standing on," I told myself. The guilt that I had been, in part, the cause of his death started to boil inside of me. The chair represented to me his last stand. It was where he gave in to the constant bombardment of abuse from my friends and me. We caused the pain he wanted to end. As I looked at the chair, I knew that worse than never recognizing my culpability in his death was recognizing it too late.

  I shined my flashlight up at the ceiling and was relieved the noose wasn't there. I imagine Stevie's parents ripped it down the first chance they got.

  I bent down and examined the immediate area. The floor was damp so I didn't hold out much hope that the comic book would survive in that environment. I zipped the flashlight to the left wall. A man, crouched down on the floor was looking at me. I screamed and fell back. Nate screamed along with me. I looked at the man closer. He was holding a sword and a flashlight and had a sling across his shoulders. The man wasn't a man. He was me. I was looking in a full-length mirror.

  I stood. My pants were now covered in the muck from the damp floor. I stepped to the mirror. That's where I saw it. In the mirror, I saw a stack of paper on the washing machine. I turned and hurried to retrieve it. My blood ran cold as I read the name of the comic book, The Takers. Without thinking, I whispered the name out loud.

  As I looked up from the homemade comic book, the mirror crashed to the floor. Kimball began to bark. Nate kicked and cried. I felt the ground begin to shake. I stuffed the comic book in Nate's sling and held tight to J.J. and the flashlight as I sprinted up the stairs only to have the door slam shut in my face.

  I whipped my flashlight around to face the bottom of the stairs. I could hear something digging its way through the concrete floor. I rammed my shoulder into the door. Kimball barked frantically. He scratched at the door. I turned and grabbed the knob. The flashlight fell out of my hand and bounced down the stairs. It landed with the beam facing into the room. I threw my shoulder into the door again. This time it gave way. As if someone were pushing against me, I forced the door opened wide enough so I could fit through. I gave the basement one last look and saw the shadow of a hand breaking through the floor. It was all the impetus I needed to dash down the hallway and out of the house.

  I grabbed my wagonload of supplies and bolted down Freemont Avenue until my lungs felt as if they were going to burst. Whatever was in the basement had not followed me. Without looking at the comic book, I took it from Nate's sling, rolled it up tight and buried it in the wagon under the supplies.

  ***

  Before leaving Tullahoma, I went to all my friends' houses, Gordy Flynn, Larry Barr, and Tim Sanders, just to check if by chance any of them had survived. They had not. I was tempted to take Gordy's dad's h
unting rifle, but I could not bring myself to do it. The truth is it intimidated the hell out of me. It was long and shiny, and by the looks of all the deer heads on the wall was a very efficient killing tool, but I had never fired a gun. I was convinced if I took it, I would end up shooting myself before I shot one of the creatures.

  I left the only hometown I had ever known behind me. It was a peculiar little Southern village that was for the most part a great place to grow up. There wasn't much to it, but it was my world, and I would miss it.

  By eight o'clock that night, I had reached Manchester, a small town located off of I-26 that was only fifteen miles from Tullahoma, but considering my weakened condition and sizeable load my progress was severely impeded. Once I was on the interstate I would head east toward Chattanooga. I decided to head east because I had an uncle in Charleston, South Carolina. I had no idea if he was alive, but there was only one way to find out.

  The sky had been overcast all day, but now the sun was completely gone, and the moon didn't provide much light. I pushed on until I reached a Kroger's grocery store, an ideal place to set up camp for the night, or so I thought. As it turns out, meat doesn't keep too well when the refrigeration system fails. It stunk to high heaven. I covered my mouth and nose with my hand, grabbed a couple of plastic bags at the end of the first register, and went from aisle to aisle taking what I thought were useful supplies, including five packages of Oreos.

  I was tearing open a box of chocolate frosted Pop Tarts when I heard a noise from the other end of the aisle. I turned and was greeted with a bright light in my eyes.

  "What'cha doing in my store, boy?" I heard a thick hoarse voice say.

  Kimball growled.

  "Sir?" I tried to sound unafraid.

  "I said, what'cha doing in my store?"

  "Nothing." The light hid him from my view.

  "Nothing? Looks like you're eatin' my food." I heard him suck in a huge gob of snot through his nose and spit it out.

  Kimball stalked toward him.

  "Call your dog off."

  "Kimball, stop," I yelled. He obeyed. "Listen mister, I don't want any trouble. I didn't know this was your food."

  A small grubby hand snuck in under my nose and ripped the Pop Tart out of my grasp. I turned to see a girl, maybe twelve-years-old, gobbling up the chocolate breakfast food. Her clothes and face were filthy, and her hair was wild and unruly.

  "Ignorance of the law ain't no excuse," the man said. "That there's Lou. Don't bother saying nothing to her. She can't talk. She's mute or something."

  Lou noticed the sling around my shoulder moving. She stepped closer and reached out. I backed away. "Me and Kimball will just go."

  "Where you going?" The man asked. He started to walk down the aisle.

  "Headed east," I said.

  "What's east?"

  "I got an uncle in Charleston."

  "Charleston?" He started to laugh. "You figurin' on getting there tonight?" He took the flashlight from my eyes, and I could finally see him. He was in his forties. He had more belly than anything else. He wore a rough three-day old beard that spread across both his chins. He had a name patch on his shirt that read "Wes." By the looks of his uniform and oil-covered hands, he was a mechanic by trade. I could see now that he was holding a large hunting knife.

  "I was going to camp near the interstate."

  Lou stepped up again and peeked inside the sling. She let out a gurgled scream of joy.

  "What'cha got there?" Wes asked.

  "Supplies." I said.

  He chuckled. "Lou don't get that excited about supplies."

  Lou reached for the sling. I slapped her hand away. She wailed.

  "Watch it, boy!" Wes reached around me and opened up the sling. "Good lord almighty, boy. That's a baby. Newborn from the looks of it." Kimball watched him suspiciously. "You best come with us."

  "I don't want any trouble."

  "And you ain't going to get none either, unless you brought some of them damn Greasy whoppers with you."

  "Greasywhoppers?" I said.

  "Them ugly buggers," he said. "The ones that done all this." He waved his knife around to indicate the devastation that surrounded us.

  "No, sir, I didn't bring any Greasywhoppers with me."

  "Well, c'mon then," he said. "We're holed up at the mattress store down the way." He moved past me, grabbing a box of breakfast bars as he headed for the exit.

  Lou stood in front of me eating the Pop Tart. She looked like a wild animal tearing into its prey. I wondered if she had always been like that or if she had just gone crazy because of what was happening to the world. I carefully moved around her and followed Wes. As I passed her, I saw her break off a chunk of her Pop Tart and try to give it to Kimball. I quickly grabbed her arm. "Don't do that," I said.

  She ripped her hand away and screamed so loud I thought she was going to puncture my eardrums.

  "I didn't mean anything by it," I said. "It's just that dogs aren't supposed to have chocolate. It could kill him."

  She threw the remaining Pop Tart at me and took off towards the door, screaming all the way. It must have been a regular occurrence because Wes had no reaction to it at all. I could see him through the window calmly walking toward the mattress store at the end of the shopping center.

  Kimball and I looked at each other. We were both confused by what had just happened. The thought of going outside, grabbing the wagon and pulling it all the way to the interstate crossed my mind. These people were strangers after all, and they didn't exactly make a great first impression. In the end, I decided my opportunity to spend time with people might be limited over the course of my journey. I might as well take advantage of it whenever I could. I exited the building, grabbed the wagon, and headed towards the mattress store.

  When I got there Wes was sitting on a mattress at the back of the store. "Take whichever you like," he said. "Lou sleeps on the floor."

  There were probably twenty mattresses to choose from. I picked one at random and put the grocery bags on it. Kimball jumped up on top of it and lay down.

  "I figured this is good as place as any to hole up," Wes said. "Got a nice place to sleep. Food store right next door. Hell, I got enough stuff over there to go a year or more without a peep from my old hungry stomach."

  I lay Nate on the bed and started to change his diaper. Lou popped up from behind the bed and watched with great interest. She moved around the bed to stand next to me, never taking her eyes off Nate.

  "You related to that little fella?" Wes asked.

  "No, sir," I said. "He belonged to my neighbors, the Chalmers." I said it like he may have heard of them.

  "That's a big job, taking care of a little one like that. You up for it?" He asked.

  "Got no choice," I said. Without prompting, Lou handed me a diaper from the wagon. "Are you Lou's daddy?"

  He laughed. "Me? No. Found her in an RV off the interstate, bout a week ago. She was hiding in the toilet. Her parents must've got took." He leaned forward. "I figure they's alien or something."

  "Lou's parents?" I said.

  "No, the Greasywhoppers. They's aliens."

  "Why do you call them Greasywhoppers?"

  "Cause that's what they is," he said. "They're big hairy whoppers covered in grease and grime, and they're all kinds of foul smelling." He leaned down and picked up a can of beer from the floor and popped it open. "Greasy-whoppers," he said just before he took a sip of beer.

  I looked at him in disbelief. "You've seen them?"

  "Damn right I did," he said. "Killed one of the suckers."

  "You did?"

  "Hell, yeah. One of them come into my shop while I was working on Mrs. Jervey's Olds 88's brakes. Had me by the neck. Claws diggin' into me." He pulled his shirt collar away to show me four puncture wounds on his neck. "He was a big ugly fella'. Dead red eyes. Long sharp teeth. He was slobbering and foaming at the mouth."

  "How'd you kill him?" I asked, enthralled by his story.

  Wes pul
led his hunting knife from its sheath. "I had this on me. I always do. Used to creep some people out, but by God, where are them people now? They got took, that's where they is. I stuck this in that Greasywhopper's belly and gutted the sucker."

  "Wow," I said, unable to contain my amazement at his bravery.

  "They took everybody else that same day. You and Lou's the only ones I've seen since." He took another sip of beer.

  "Where do you suppose they take everybody?"

  "Don't know," he said. "But this whole thing is a military operation. You can count on that."

  "Military?"

  "Yes, sir. They cut power and communications first. Isolated everybody. Our chain of command didn't have no way to get instructions to our soldiers. Then they done something to the guns. Won't none of them fire."

  I filled a bottle with formula. Lou was hovering over Nate. I reached around her, picked him up and started to feed him. Lou stood inches away from me watching every move the baby made.

  "Saw a few planes from the air force base down the road fly over in the beginning," Wes said. "I guess jet fuel worked for some reason or another. But I ain't seen one in about five days now. I reckon there ain't nothing left of our military."

  I tried to move away from Lou, but she followed me wherever I went. A thought came to me. "How do you know her name's Lou if she can't talk?"

  "I don't," he said. "She looks like my sister Louise." He stretched out on his mattress. "You missed dinner. Lou and me cooked us up some beans and rice."

  "Cooked?" I said, surprised.

  "We got us a propane deluxe grill from the Wal-Mart across the way. He closed his eyes. "Can't fire it up, though. Not 'til tomorrow morning. We're rationin' the propane." Within seconds I heard him snoring.