Carrion (The Bren Watts Diaries #1)

Chapter 78

It had already been four hours into our trip, and the heat became more uncomfortable by noon.

Soft music played on the radio, and we all sang Hotel California right to the very end. DJ Swayze's voice reverberated across the interior with a Matthew McConaughey swagger, telling his avid listeners to have a lovely and safe morning.

Swayze recalled all the CDC and WHO guidelines, the CRA rules, and curfews. He reiterated what he had accumulated from across the globe, injecting his grotesque sense of humor. He often recounted (in great detail) how he dispatched of them, how to kill them, or any stories that involved vectors dying. Rather than fearing it, it seemed DJ Swayze wasn't afraid of anything much.

DJ Swayze was the only radio host still alive on the airwaves. I guessed he wanted to spend his time bringing music to other folks rather than finding a safe refuge. We talked about finding him, but we didn't know where he operated or even if he was in the right state of mind. I mean, who wanted to continue doing their old job when there's a deadly pandemic? Still, it comforted me that there's still someone alive out there. Swayze had become our radio Bob Ross. His voice soothing even when he's engrossed himself in a story of blood, guts, and gore.

We liked DJ Swayze, even if we didn't know who the guy was (he might be a creep). I pictured him as a cowboy-wearing, tucked plaid shirt, leather-skin belt buckled, straw-biting, a country-next-door fellow straight out of a Clint Eastwood film.

Believe me when I tell you that my image of him was by far the tamest description of Swayze. He's one of the best vector killers across the continent. He beats my record by a mile... and I ain't mad. The guy has mad skills.

And he's the scariest teacher I ever had.

Although that's a story for another day.

——

"Are you sure this is the right way?" Haskell asked. He gestured to the massive uprooted tree lying across the road, blown off by a massive wind storm that had gone through the area two weeks ago. Now that the country no longer had maintenance workers, leaving the tree rotting in the middle of the road.

"It's the quickest route," Peter said. He's hunched over the front hood, studying the maps spread over the surface.

Haskell rolled his eyes. "Back roads aren't quick. Why can't we take the interstate?"

"For the hundredth time, Hoss, it's filled with dozens of abandoned vehicles, plus the motherfucking vectors. You want to risk our asses going through that?"

"No..."

"So, shut up."

"Hey. Why're you mad at me?"

"I'm not. Jesus. Look, keep an eye out. I'm thinking here."

Haskell grumbled as he went back up to the turret, focusing on being our lookout.

"We should get out of here first. I don't like these woods much," I said, and Miguel grunted in agreement.

Peter peered his eyes off the maps and surveyed around. "Why don't you help me search for the route so we can do that quicker." Peter passed the other map to Miguel and me.

"I've been saying we take route ten and follow along the Delaware river," I argued.

"We're going to go through three major towns before we get to Binghamton. It'll take time to navigate around them."

"What other choice do we have?"

"I see dozens of back roads scattered around the Appalachian mountains."