And now, Clare was gently running her fingertips through it, staring into my eyes and reading me as only she could.
“I know I’m repeating myself,” she said, lowering her hand. “But I still can’t believe this whole thing really happened. Everything Samir said was true.”
“Yeah, except for the timing.” I sighed. “Really wish we’d had that extra week… we’d already be up north.”
“And maybe Mom wouldn’t be dying,” she lamented, pressing her cheek against my chest.
I squeezed her more tightly. “I’m so sorry, baby. Really I am.”
And I meant it. For her sake. And she knew it.
“I just can’t believe…” She sniffled. “Mom’s a pain, I know, but she’s still my mom.”
I didn’t know how to respond. Before I’d stumbled into Clare’s life—or, rather, before she’d stumbled into my workplace for her first-ever post-college job—she and her mother had been extremely close.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Before Clare had left New Orleans at seventeen to attend college in Chicago—the city where we ultimately met—they had been as close as a mother and daughter could be. But spending the majority of four years a thousand miles from home had given Clare some much-needed perspective about the unhealthier aspects of their relationship, such as Jill’s smothering love and frequent guilt trips.
So, by the time I’d arrived on the scene, Clare was already primed to fall in love with someone who adored her completely, brought out her best, and didn’t fawn all over her mother—something all her previous boyfriends had eagerly done.
My constant presence in her daughter’s life—and, admittedly, the fact that we got engaged before Jill had even met me—had caused a lot of grief and tension during Clare’s twenties. In recent years, however, Clare and her mother had repaired their relationship to an extent, so even though Jill still didn’t treat me with much respect, I knew how devastating the loss would be for my wife.
Worse, Clare’s family—both the maternal and paternal halves—had longevity on their side. And given Jill’s healthy diet and daily exercise routine, she could’ve lived for another thirty years.
Who could’ve guessed that one minuscule zombie scratch would be her downfall?
Gently, I pushed Clare a few inches from my chest, so I could see her face in the moonlight. Tears glistened on her cheeks, and my chest tightened.
“What do you want to do?” I forced myself to ask. “Or rather, what do you want me to do for her?”
Another tear rolled down her cheek, and I resisted the urge to wipe it away.
“What are you asking?”
I exhaled loudly, stalling for time. “Honestly? I don’t think… I mean…” I gulped, reluctant to say the words. “Listen, all the antibiotics and painkillers in the world won’t help her. We both know that.” A breeze rustled the trees, and I took the opportunity to shift my gaze toward the woods. “It’s clear now that a scratch from a zombie is just as deadly as a bite. Just takes the victim longer to turn.”
I kept my eyes on the forest, afraid to look at her. After a long, unsettling moment, her forehead thudded against my chest, and her body shook with sobs. I wrapped my arms around her and said nothing. I couldn’t bring myself to lay out the only two viable options we had: shooting Jill now or waiting until she turned and shooting her then.
A couple minutes of uncontrollable weeping passed, and then Clare stepped out of my embrace, wiped the tears from her cheeks, and fixed me with a determined gaze. Apparently, she’d cried herself into a decision.
“I get it. Mom’s gonna die, and there’s nothing I can do to save her.”
I could tell she was summoning every bit of resolve she could muster.
“Eventually, she’ll turn into a monster, and I don’t want to see that happen. I don’t think she does either. If it were me in there…” She nodded toward the van. “…I’d want to die before I turned into a disgusting, relentless cannibal.”
I gripped her hand and she squeezed back.
“The thing is,” Clare continued, “that’s not me in there. Mom didn’t ask for a goddamn pus-sack to scratch her, but she has a right to choose how she goes. If she wants me to end her suffering now, I will.” Her eyes watered, and despite the impressive facade of strength she displayed, I knew she was on the verge of crying again. “And if she’d rather wait… well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
I almost voiced my concerns about sleeping so close to a soon-to-be-zombie, almost suggested we strap her down to the sofa before attempting to sleep. But I kept my mouth shut—the timing simply didn’t feel right.
Besides, I could tell Clare had more to say.
“But I’m afraid, Joe. I mean, she’s my mom, my responsibility. But will I really be able to kill her when the time comes?”
I pulled her toward me, embracing her once more. “You know I’d never let you do that. Even if it must be done, you’d never get over it. I know you.” I squeezed her again. “So, when the time comes, I’ll be the one to pull the trigger. Not you.”
“Oh, Joe,” she said, her voice muffled, “I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You don’t have to ask me. We’re a team. We always have been, and we always will be.”
She looked up, her eyes red and swollen, her cheeks streaked with more tears. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me either. We’ll get through this together, just as we have with everything else.”
She nodded sadly. “I’m so grateful for you, Joe. I couldn’t have survived any of this without you.”
“Well, I haven’t done much yet.”
“Are you nuts? We’re still alive, aren’t we? The fact that you’ve gotten us this far is fucking amazing.”
Clare rarely used the f-word, so whenever she did, I paid close attention.
I smiled. “I appreciate that, baby, but the truth is… I had help. A lot of it.”
Chapter
6
“I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go.” – Indiana Jones, Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)
My gaze flicked toward the battle wagon—and the silhouettes within. Casey’s head was bent forward, and George currently stroked the shaggy bangs from his eyes. Perhaps she was comforting him over the death of his father—and trying to allay his guilt over having had to shoot him.
She had no time to grieve for her dead husband, no time to accept her sudden widowhood—or the bizarre circumstances that had ripped her family apart. She was a mother first—always and forever.
Clare followed my gaze. “I’m grateful for them, too. They’re good people.” She turned and caressed my cheek. “And they helped you get back to me.” Her eyes watered again, and she lowered her hand. “Even with all they’d lost, they were still willing to help a stranger. I’ll never forget that.”
“Me neither.” I had the sudden urge to lighten the mood. “I swear, this is the worst fucking apocalypse I’ve ever gone through.”
Clare laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. Although I’d wanted to distract her from her melancholy thoughts, the short but genuine guffaw startled me—as much as it had alarmed her. Or perhaps it only seemed loud within a lifeless forest.
She cracked a smile, then sheepishly glanced toward the station wagon, where George and Casey had turned toward us.
Maybe it wasn’t the most appropriate time for a joke, but we desperately needed some levity. So much death and heartache had besieged the world. So many dangers still surrounded us, and our journey was far from over.
Roughly twelve hundred miles remained between our present location and my family’s house-turned-bug-out-compound in northern Michigan—but only if we managed to follow the most direct route. According to my GPS-enabled mapping programs, that many miles would take at least seventeen hours of uninterrupted driving to traverse. But if the first leg of our journey had been any indication, our cross-country pilgrimage would take a helluva lot longer
than that.
If we could move at a slightly faster pace than I’d been able to upon leaving New Orleans, it might only require three days to cover that distance—especially if Clare and I (as well as George and Casey) took turns driving. I just hoped we could rely on the interstates at some point… not dinky back roads—and naturally, I prayed that no undead mobs, perilous roadblocks, or other major obstacles got in our way.
Unfortunately, we’d have to stop periodically for gas and other supplies. Although I’d tried to pack enough essentials for the entire journey—including extra fuel—I hadn’t counted on picking up an additional vehicle and two more travelers. Not that I was complaining.
To be fair, even without our new friends, I couldn’t possibly have stored enough gas for the whole trip. We’d need more than one hundred and sixty-five gallons to reach Michigan—and that was only if we avoided too many detours. Which was impossible in a zombie apocalypse.
At some point, I’d also have to try contacting the rest of my family. I still hoped I could rescue my two older brothers and their daughters from an untimely fate. I’d intended to save my parents as well, but they’d refused to leave their winter home in southern Florida. I could only trust that, when the undead shit had hit the fan, they’d finally believed my crazy rantings—and had enough time to flee up north.
“Joe,” Clare said, drawing my attention back to her, “we should probably get some sleep.”
I was utterly exhausted, and she could undoubtedly see evidence of that on my face, but thinking about my family had rearranged my priorities.
“You’re right, but first, I need to reach out to John and James. Maybe my folks, too, if they’re… listening.” Couldn’t admit my biggest fear—that none of them had made it out of their own cities alive. “Might not get another chance anytime soon.”
Clare creased her brow, likely worried about her in-laws, too—not to mention her father and stepmother—then she nodded once, her lips curved into a wan smile. “Of course. Lemme help.”
I beamed, grateful as always to have such a loving, supportive wife—but wishing she were also a shortwave-radio expert.
Cuz I sure as hell ain’t.
When I’d initially embarked on my two-week prepping phase, I had purchased five shortwave radios: one for me, one for my parents, one for each of my two older brothers, and one for Clare’s dad, Edward. Each radio was equipped with a transceiver and a portable battery unit, among other accessories. At the time of sending the handy communication devices to our loved ones, I’d had no clue how to operate the damn things—frankly, I still didn’t—but I’d learned enough from my limited research to select a less-utilized frequency for future family convos.
Not that it would matter much in a zombie apocalypse. Unless undead carnivores had figured out how to bombard our airwaves with the moaning-hissing dialect known only to them, I doubted there were many humans left alive to cause much signal interference.
Inside each package, I’d slipped a note instructing John, James, my folks, and my father-in-law to tune into 27656 kilohertz—a multiple of the street address of my favorite childhood home… and, hopefully, an easy number for most of us to remember.
Although I’d always possessed a decent recollection for cinema, music, and cuisine (as in, the movies I’d seen, the albums I’d heard, and the dishes I’d made or enjoyed), I’d never been great with names and figures, and my memory had only grown less reliable over the years. Not that it had ever been as sharp as my wife’s—which I’d often considered a fortunate extension of my own brain. A portable “hard drive” that I’d be lost without.
Hence, when it came to recalling a specific emergency channel, I needed all the help I could get. My older brothers and elderly parents likely did, too. Same with my father-in-law.
But before I could even attempt to reach them, I had to get my own radio working. So, while Clare informed George and Casey of our intentions, I scanned a few of my downloaded articles about shortwave-radio transmission.
When I felt ready to give it a shot, I opened the rear doors of the van and unpacked the radio as well as the shortwave reel antenna I’d bought in order to boost the signal in remote places… you know, in case we got stuck in a fucking forest far from civilization.
I glanced at a nearby pine tree, tracing its sturdy trunk to the darkened canopy far above our cozy clearing. Somehow, I needed to shimmy my fat ass up the rough bark and secure the antenna as high as possible. Of course, I hadn’t climbed a tree in thirty-five years—long before arthritis and extra poundage had become serious impediments. No, I wasn’t in tiptop shape, but I wouldn’t rest without knowing if my family was alive… or not.
Clare stepped beside me and gently touched my shoulder. “So, what do you need to make this work?” She nodded toward the radio sitting on the van floor.
After explaining my harebrained plan, I figured she’d protest. Instead, she giggled.
“Um, Joe, I hate to burst your bubble, but perhaps it would be better if I climbed the tree instead.”
As a longtime practitioner of yoga, Clare was undoubtedly more agile and more flexible than I, but nonetheless, she was in her late thirties, a bit heavier than she once was, and not always known for physical grace under pressure. Besides, I figured it had been at least twenty-five years since she’d attempted such a feat herself.
Now was not an ideal time to risk breaking a limb—or something worse.
“OK, tough girl.” I chuckled. “Actually, it might be best for someone even younger to give it a go.”
Young… and fearless.
Somebody had to climb the stalwart tree and string up the wire, and it wouldn’t be my fat ass—or my wife’s smaller but no less fragile one. I nodded toward the most likely candidate, who was currently leaning against the battle wagon, a few inches from his mother.
Clare pouted, but reluctantly agreed.
Casey, naturally, seemed overjoyed by the request. His mother, not so much.
“Please be careful,” she implored as her beaming son readied himself at the base of the pine tree. “You could break your neck falling out of a tree that big.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I can handle this.”
Ah, to be young and stupid again.
I’d certainly pulled a lot of crazy stunts as an adolescent, not to mention during my late teens and early twenties—crap that my forty-five-year-old brain simply wouldn’t allow me to do anymore. Casey, however, didn’t give the tree’s nearly hundred-foot height a second thought.
As he began his ascent, I asked George to turn on her headlights, then I shifted the radio to the hood of her station wagon. Besides a portable battery and a hand crank (in case the battery died), the unit had come equipped with a power cable, which I plugged into an exterior outlet I’d installed on my rig. By the time Casey reached the top of the tree and secured the wire to several branches, I had already powered up the shortwave and started dialing through the myriad frequencies.
Thanks to my limited research, I understood that reception could be less dependable on autumn nights, but I refused to give up hope. Not until I’d heard a familiar voice.
George and Clare, meanwhile, stood on either side of me, monitoring our campsite for any undead interlopers. But I knew they were both listening closely to the radio static.
Not surprisingly, the first channel we picked up belonged to a U.S. government station. Though heartened to hear someone was still broadcasting, I realized it was simply a lame, repetitive emergency message warning everyone to fortify their houses and shelter in place.
I continued turning the dial until I reached the frequency I’d instructed our families to use. Assuming I’d hear the same static I’d already discerned on countless other channels, I was surprised to hear nothing but silence.
Quickly, I plugged in the mic and pushed what looked like the talk button. Not that I knew anything for certain.
Yep, shoulda spent more time researching this damn thing.
“An
ybody out there?” I tentatively asked. “Uh, calling John… James… either of you guys around?” Then, with even less faith, I tried our folks. “Mom? Dad? Eddie?”
Clare pivoted toward the radio, a hopeful look on her face.
But no reply came.
I tried again and again, but nothing responded except silence. Complete, utter silence.
Hell, even if I was operating the radio correctly—which I highly doubted—I couldn’t possibly guarantee that either of my brothers, much less our parents, would be listening at that precise moment.
I turned to Clare and shrugged. “I’m not really sure how this thing works.”
Grinning impishly, she patted me on the back. “Yeah, babe, we kinda figured.”
I smirked, then gazed up toward Casey, whose silhouette I could barely see in the murky moonlight. “Hey, Casey,” I hollered, just loud enough for him to hear. “Can you stay up there for a bit? We may need to rearrange the antenna to boost the signal.”
“No problem, Joe,” he shouted in return.
George shot me a steely-eyed glare. My request might not be problematic for her son, but it obviously was for her. At eighteen, though, Casey could make his own decisions.
Still, I understood her motherly concern, and I certainly would feel guilty if the kid plummeted from such a height. Cuz George was right: He could easily break his neck.
But while I couldn’t see Casey’s face in the gloom, I’d certainly caught the enthusiasm in his voice. The kid would’ve likely offered to stay up there all night. Though technically an adult, he surely relished the chance to climb a tree on a moonlit evening. Probably made him feel younger, more liberated, and more impervious to zombie bites.
I couldn’t rightly begrudge him such a carefree moment… until I imagined him slipping off a limb, slamming into the ground, and busting several bones. Maybe even rupturing a few necessary organs, too.
Zombie Chaos Box Set | Books 1-4 Page 52
